


Just Let It Happen

by gottageekout



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extended Scene, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Panic Attacks, Suicide, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 06:31:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15164705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gottageekout/pseuds/gottageekout
Summary: Connor gets more than he bargains for when he probes Simon in a desperate act for information.(set during the chapter "Public Enemy", then diverges from canon from there)





	Just Let It Happen

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to take apart and play with the scene since I saw it on my second playthrough, honestly, and this is what comes of that. Thanks for reading!

_Something’s happening…something serious._

 

Connor’s mission perimeters are clear. After the disaster that was Eden’s Club, there is an awareness in him that Amanda was becoming displeased. It should’ve been easy, bringing those two in, and yet that isn't the case at all.

 

_Why didn’t you shoot, Connor?_

 

The question has been repeating in his head since the bridge. He still has no answer for Hank and he hadn’t truly had one for Amanda when she asked, either. He didn’t know, and that lack of understanding blipped as instability. It isn’t the first time his programming gave him the warning. Self-tests have done nothing to reveal where the warning is coming from, no hole in his software to patch to make it stop, as much as he’d reassured Hank he was okay.

 

It isn’t a lie when he knows, _overall_ , it’s the truth.

 

The roof is barren when they step onto it, snowflakes steadily drifting down on them. For the scene of an elaborate escape, you'd barely know something happened there. No clear evidence - they'd been, for the most part, frustratingly smart. Hank is talking through what Connor already has fully reconstructed. A step ahead, he’s already running scans, eyes darting around this new scene, pulling in on the scant clues staring them in the face. The extra parachute gets the wheels in his head going. Four parachutes, with only three used. Four androids seen. Where is the fourth? No one reported a body on the roof or down below. His gaze shifts, still scanning, and nothing pings until he looks to the left of him. He stops cold then, unable to believe he hadn’t noticed it sooner.

 

A quick cross analysis of the pool of thirium reveals what he suspects: it matches the sample he took downstairs. The initial reconstruction of the scene is an easy one - the large pooling of the blueish tint is a good indication that he’d spent at least some time there. Talking to its co-conspirators, perhaps? He runs through scenarios of it getting dragged to be out of sight, but there’s no marks to prove that. No it had to have struggled to its own feet to flee. There’s only one viable destination that the reconstruction can show him, moving away from the door.

 

To hide?

 

Mentally, he updates his notes: _Deviant left behind?_

 

He starts moving forward with all the focus of a bloodhound. Distantly, he hears Hank still chatting, and he doesn’t really think to even call him over. The light snow accumulation underneath his feet makes things frustratingly difficult. The foot trail ends quickly, perhaps obscured by the snow, but it’s replaced by bloodied handprints as the deviant likely stumbled from one thing to lean on to the other. It’s not a big roof, and he can guess the end point before he even gets close enough to see the handprint on the door. The large storage container is an ideal hiding place for the purposes of evasion.

 

Opening the door, he finds himself staring down the barrel of a gun once again.

 

There’s no time for any of his processes to react to it. He takes the full brunt of the shot to his chest, and though it does not hurt, the force knocks him back. Diagnostics immediately start running – there is damage, but no vital components are compromised. He struggles to get to his feet as shots ring out – not from the deviant’s gun, but the enforcement that came running at all the commotion. He isn’t sure when Hank noticed him missing but he’s there now, in the line of fire, grabbing and hefting him up with a strength he didn’t expect out of the lieutenant. They retreat enough to get behind a barrier, and it gives Connor the few moments he needs to assess the situation.

 

They were going to riddle it with holes, he realizes. He can’t let that happen, not when they’re so close. Knowing he has little clout, he turns to Hank, yelling over the loud sound of exchanging gunfire.

 

“You have to stop them!” he practically demands, and there’s a tone of something approaching desperation. “If they destroy it, we won’t learn anything!”

 

Hank takes one look at the fighting over his shoulder and Connor can practically see his mind immediately setting. “We can’t save it, it’s too late! We’ll just get ourselves killed!”

 

It isn’t as though Hank is even incorrect in his assessment. All scenarios have just Connor _at his best_ looking at a 75% chance of injury, and the further complication of the gunshot he took bumps it up to something closer to 80%. That injury being catastrophic to his systems is also far above a level that would deem this a safe decision. The deviant was too far gone, closer to a cornered animal, lashing out until its last moments. Connor knows all of this, he _knows,_ but -

 

_Hurry, Connor._

 

Amanda’s words (and undercurrent of disapproving warning) weighs heavily in his mind. The conflicting orders of his overall mission and Hank’s pragmatism butt heads again. He’d allowed his partner’s caution to win the day when he was chasing the deviant with the little girl as they fled across the busy highway. He can’t listen this time, not when he knows the ties this deviant has is everything he's been looking for.

 

So he runs. He vaguely recognizes Hank’s trying to grab at his coat, pull him back, but he’s too far out to be stopped. The synthetic skin melts away from his hand as he dodges one shot, then another, one bullet coming dangerously close to his head. It causes him to duck, which ends up being to his advantage, because it gives him momentary coverage behind what the deviant is using as a shield. With one fluid motion, he leaps over the barrier and slams into the deviant hard, pushing it back into storage container, his free hand grabbing onto his arm. The connection is instantaneous, LED flaring yellow, and he rapidly attempts to find the information he’s looking for in the memory banks of the struggling android.

 

There’d been no real thought that interfacing with a deviant would be any different than probing into the mind of any normal android. He is, after all, only attempting to download and interpret data, and data in its rawest form is simple. At worst, he'd assumed, the data would be corrupted, and he gets nothing out of it except strings of indecipherable images.

 

What happens when he accesses the deviant's memory is nothing even remotely close to that.

 

For the few seconds they are connected, it feels less like any probe he's even done and more like he’s entered into a charged feedback loop with it. A brief flash of a decrepit sign is sandwiched between sensations that overwhelm Connor’s senses. Despair, anger, sadness, longing, fear. So much fear that builds and builds and builds and he can’t take his hand away, he can’t –

 

The fear spikes to an unbearable level as he distantly hears the shot of a gun. Even though he isn’t the one shot, he swears he feels it happen to him too, along with the last moments of consciousness. The loop breaks as the deviant’s body tumbles to the ground, and though Connor's free of it, he’s not free of the effects. It’s like a part of him is short circuiting now, and there’s stress errors blipping in his head with no rhyme or reason to them. It takes everything in him not to simply collapse, and his LED is spinning deep red as his programming attempts to parse what he’s just gone through. It’s paralyzing to the point he doesn’t even realize Hank is running over, calling out to him.

 

“…Connor!”

 

It’s the first word outside of his own head he hears, mostly because Hank’s large hand wrapping around his arm is grounding in a way he can’t even begin to understand. He realizes Hank must have asked him something, and at first, all he can manage out is a quiet, “…Okay.”

 

He needs to self-test and repair what needs repairing, because there has to be something. He needs to find what the deviant has done to him, because he’s not supposed to feel what he’s feeling at all.

 

“Are you hurt?” Hank is more concerned than Connor has ever seen him. He focuses on that right now, focuses on his face.

 

“I’m okay,” he reassures, the words clipped and forced, as if he’s trying to convince himself.

 

He’s not okay. He’s not even _remotely_ okay. It all feels like it’s still coiling around him, and he still can’t find anything to fix to make this stop.

 

“Jesus,” his partner draws out with a loud, relieved sigh. When Hank leaves his side, he acutely feels the loss of touch. “You scared the shit out of me…”

 

Connor weakly manages to incline his head to the side to look at him, just in time to see the relief he’d been reading on the lieutenant’s face twist into anger.

 

“For fuck’s sake, I told you not to move!” he continues, now full on _admonishing_ him. “Why do you never do what I say?!”

 

There is no answer he can give that'd be satisfactory. He can barely form coherent thoughts right now, nevermind explain his reasoning and the pressure he’s under to get a lead. Another attempt at finding out what's happening leads to another dead end, and he finally, desperately, makes a decision.

 

“I was connected to its memory,” he starts without really thinking of the consequences. He's not just talking through what's happening to Hank, he's doing it within earshot of absolute strangers. Humans who had no problem gunning deviants down. “When it fired, I felt it die…like I was dying.”

 

_But are you afraid to die, Connor?_

 

“…I was scared.”

 

Hank is dead silent, staring at him. Speaking it outloud, putting words to it instead of fighting it, starts to loosen the hold it has on him. He pauses to gather himself, and as his core functions start to clear, he remembers exactly what he saw before it all went so horribly wrong. He remembers something important.

 

“I saw something…in its memory,” he continues, his words coming more easily now. It’s another focus, he needs this. “A word, painted on a piece of rusty metal – ‘Jericho’.”

 

All of what he went through, and that’s all he has. But it’s something, and he knows that needs to be enough. Hank still hasn’t spoken, and he feels all eyes on him from all sides. Another instability warning blips and it only makes things worse. He glances uselessly at Hank, who seems to be less interested in this new development than he is in turning all his ire toward the gawking officers.

 

“What are you assholes staring at?” he asks. “Go do your damn jobs and report Connor neutralized one of the deviants you idiots nearly missed!”

 

They share a look but immediately follow the direction, Connor watches blankly as they retreat towards the door downstairs. The worst of whatever just happened to him is seemingly over – the red that had been cycling dies down to a calmer yellow – but he feels sluggish and his sensors had a sort of hazy quality to them. Androids don’t feel exhaustion – it would be a useless thing to recreate - but he imagines this overclocking of his system is what it feels like for humans when they feel it. Sagging against the barrier he’d jumped over, he puts a hand to his face, trying to force his head clear enough to know where to even start with trying to fix himself. The splatter of blue across his uniform is nothing to the damage this deviant left mentally.

 

The thing was, it wasn’t trying. He’s sure of it. He’d simply forced himself onto it and was subsequently given a window into what it felt like to be deviant. He knew they were different somehow, but he'd never would've expected them to be such a jumble of emotions that they'd give _humans_ a run for their money. And whatever happened to him is still there in him, he thinks. The current has settled and the deluge he’d been hit with has passed, but he still feels it, that existential fear. It’s like it’s become a part of him, something he can’t shut off, and dread settles on him like the light dusting of snow on his coat.

 

He shouldn’t be like this. This shouldn’t be happening. The tiny blips of instability in his system lately had been one thing, things he’s been able to ignore successfully and convince himself were nothing but false errors, but this is too much. This is something he recognizes as a problem, and what generally happens to problems like this is currently on display by his feet.

 

He shouldn’t care what happens now, he shouldn’t have any feelings _at all_ , but he does.

 

Hank approaches him – he assumes they’re alone now – with a sort of gingerness he’s never seen the man have around him before. Connor desperately wants to pull himself together, to straighten himself out and act like it never happened, but he can’t.

 

_How do I know you’re not a deviant?_

 

His self-tests have been utterly _useless_ , haven’t they?

 

“Come on, kid,” he says, and Hank surprises him by wrapping an arm around his shoulders to help him stand straight. He stays that way until he’s sure he’s steady on his feet, then drops the arm. Connor is usually the one with the answers, but right now, he looks to Hank for instruction. He needs someone to tell him what he’s supposed to do right now. As if sensing that, he adds, “Just follow my lead, alright?”

 

He nods mutely.

 

And really, it’s a bit of a sight to behold, watching Hank entirely take charge. It’s not the first time he’s done it, but it’s the first time Connor thinks he’s ever seen him so thoroughly throw himself so into it. He thinks it odd until he notices he’s being so loud and so in everyone’s face that no one pays Connor a single glance, especially when they have to deal with the FBI agents. With a conspirator actually found, they’re eager to get them out of there, and Connor eventually realizes it’s what Hank wants, too. He’s just making a big enough stink about it to not look suspicious.

 

They are practically tossed off the scene. Hank just let it happen.

 

Returning to Hank’s beat up old car, Connor realizes he needs to formulate a plan of action. Uncharacteristically, he decides to put it off, if only for the car ride. Staring out the window, he watches the scenery around them pass by. Something starts pinging him as...off, however.

 

“Lieutenant, I believe you’re going the wrong way.” Connor mentions after a few minutes of entirely wrong turns. They don’t appear to be going the direction of the precinct at all.

 

“I’m not dealing with any more of this right now,” he responds simply, making another turn. “And you’re taking a _break_.”

 

Realizing his actions are purposeful, it takes Connor moments to realize the only destination that would line up with what he's suggesting. He sits up immediately, looking over with a disapproving frown. “Lieutenant, we finally have a lead. There’s no time for –“

 

“I’m doing this for your own good,” he interjects, shooting him a look that quiets him, at least for a moment. “You went through shit today, Connor, and I know you’re going to keep pushing yourself until whatever’s in that head of yours _actually_ fries and I’m going to be the one with my ass on the line for letting that happen. And I can see you already coming up with some stupid percentage or some other android speak for why I’m wrong, but just humor me for one fucking night, okay?”

 

His tone is hard-edged and frustration etches across his face, but every other part of his body language and vitals indicates worry. Worry for him, for his well-being. It sends ripple of feeling through Connor that's been there before but something he's never given much thought about until now. Connecting dots he’s only now beginning to notice, his systems inform him, again, of software instability. He very purposely silences the warning, preventing it from popping up any longer - at least for now.

 

“…Okay,” he replies, resting his hands in his lap, pliant in a way he rarely is when it comes to the mission he’s been given.

 

Hank turns his music up then. Connor thinks he might understand why Hank enjoys the sort of things he plays on blast during their car rides, he's finding it's doing a good job drowning out everything else.

 

* * *

 

 

Unsurprisingly, they pull up to Hank’s home not long after. The home is somehow gloomier looking under the thick, grey clouds above them, but Connor knows this place affords him some moment of privacy to do what he needs to do away from the prying eyes of his creators or people who might not be as understanding as Hank is being. He gets out, still a little unsteady on his feet. Hank seems to linger until it's clear he doesn't need help, then leads the way forward.

 

He opens the door and braces himself. Connor doesn’t have enough time to understand why before Sumo practically launches himself onto his owner, the giant beast of a dog standing on his hindquarters and slathering his face with affectionate licks. Hank makes small, futile gestures to get the dog off, but he’s clearly enjoying what seems to be his daily greeting home from his pet. Eventually - with some amount of protest - he manages to get Sumo to let them inside. The dog corners Connor instead as Hank disappears down the hallway he knows leads to either his bathroom or his bedroom. Admittedly, he's a little surprised as the dog actively shoves his big, warm snout against his hand, tail wagging furiously in a way he understands to be a very happy gesture. It's certainly nothing he's about to complain about, though, and he squats down so he’s at the dog’s level, rubbing him behind his ears. The dog presses closer until their foreheads are touching, and it’s such a pleasant sensation that he nearly _laughs_.

 

Connor hears Hank clear his throat just as the dog decides to lick his face, which, while far _less_ pleasant, is something he certainly doesn’t lean away from. Wiping at the slobber left behind (he must be a mess, he thinks distantly), he stands up, though not before giving the dog one last pat. Sumo lumbers away then, returning to what seems to be his favorite place to sleep. He lays down with a quiet _flump_ , his head resting on his paws, though he’s clearly still watching the two of them.

 

“Well, I guess he’s going to be useless the next time you crash through one of my windows,” Hank simply snorts, heading into the kitchen. Connor can feel a slight breeze and glancing over, he sees the window boarded up crudely. Apparently CyberLife hadn’t sent someone to fix it yet, despite Connor putting in an emergency request.

 

Connor has the good sense to at least offer him something approaching an apologetic look as he joins him, brushing off his coat as he goes. As much as he'd like to remain here, he knows he has things to do. “I need to run some diagnostics and repairs. Though the physical injury –“ he motions to the hole in his outfit and Hank frowns at it – “is not severe, it still needs some attention, among other things.”

 

The other things go unsaid, but Hank seems to catch on rather quickly.

 

“Yeah, sure,” he replies, then pauses as he realizes something. “You just gonna stand in some corner, or –“

 

Honestly, he probably can, but he imagines it would be strange for his partner. “Anywhere you have room, though preferably someplace where I won’t be interrupted.”

 

There’s two rooms and a main area in this tiny house. It doesn't take long for him to sigh, motioning toward the hallway. “Go ahead and use my room. I can’t promise you Sumo won’t try to throw himself onto you if you do it out here.”

 

“Thank you,” he says with a nod to excuse himself.

 

It still feels a little strange, going into his bedroom. He’s aware this is the most personal area for most humans, and it’s hard to feel like he isn’t trespassing on that. It'd been offered, however, and Connor just makes a mental note not to touch anything he doesn't have to. Closing the door and turning on the nearby light, he surveys the area for the moment. It’s as barren as the rest of the house and his bed is as unmade as it was the last time he'd come in. Glancing between the uncomfortable looking chair in the corner that has stains he actively decides not to check the origin of, he decides perhaps the bed would be the better option for this.

 

But first he sheds his jacket, which is soaked thoroughly by snow by then, and hangs it to let it dry. It reveals the more noticeable hole in his dress shirt, which has a deeper stain of blue around it. It's not torn enough to be able to inspect the area like he needs to, so he continues on, loosening his tie and letting it hang around his neck. He starts to unbutton the torn shirt, careful not to make it any worse (he has nothing to replace it for now, after all) and is nearly finished with the task when there’s a knock and the door swings open with no attempt to wait for an answer.

 

“Hey, before you –what the fuck?”

 

Connor looks up as he finishes the last button to find Hank staring at him and his eyebrows knit in confusion.

 

“Is there something the matter?” he asks, arms falling to their sides. He scans almost on instinct and finds his partner’s temperature spiking for no discernable reason. “I can put off checking my injury if you need me to do something first.”

 

Whatever he says seems to have been what the issue was, as hs partner's expression shifts from surprised to…mild embarrassment?

 

“No, that’s – look, I just wanted to say if your shit is as soaked as I am, just throw something of mine on for a while.” A beat. He seems to notice the hole in his shirt now as he tentatively looks him over. It likely isn’t as bad as it looks to Connor – he doubts Hank can see the edges tinged with his blue colored blood. “...You alright?”

 

The answer is _probably_ yes, at least physically, but he does choose to give Hank a more concrete answer. He tugs the shirt aside for him to see, revealing the area of his chest where the bullet hit him. There is no major damage, but there's a noticeable indent where the bullet that hit him is still sunken into his skin. Hank, who had come closer by then, clearly is not happy with what he sees.

 

“Jesus, Connor, you have a bullet lodged in you and you didn’t think that’d be important to tell me?” he asks. Connor considers pointing out he's as surprised as Hank is about it, but he decides it’s perhaps not worth the argument. “Just – just stand there, you hear me?”

 

“I can –“ but he’s gone before he can finish even a little bit of the sentence. Connor considers just pulling it out before he even gets back, but in the end, he simply stands, waiting. He imagines digging a bullet out has a high probability of weirding his partner out, and he’s realizing more and more that he wants the acceptance. He tries not to think about the implications of wanting anything.

 

Hank returns with what appears to be a first aid kit. He puts it down on his bed before bending down to rifle through it for something he’s looking for. It’s enough effort that Connor feels a little bad, so he offers, “I appreciate your concern, but -“

 

“Just take the damn shirt off,” he huffs, not looking up as he makes the request. Connor takes the hint and let it slip down his shoulders, it and the tie pooling around his feet. Hank straightens, now armed with tweezers. He steps closer, taking a better look at it.

 

It doesn't take him long to get to work once he's got a better look at what he's dealing with. Despite the unpleasant reason for the situation, his proximity and his surprisingly gentle manner of helping him is doing things that Connor isn’t entirely sure how to describe – a jolt that certainly _shouldn't_ be there, but at least it's not an uncomfortable one. Before he gets a chance to try to suss it out, Hank is already done with what is as simple a task as he'd assumed it would be.

 

“Fucking hell,” he hears the lieutenant swear, and Connor glances down to see him gawking at the wound as it closes on its own now that there’s nothing blocking his self-repair protocols.

 

“I can bounce back from most injuries,” he says as explanation, reaching up to rub the spot. "Thank you, though. That would've been a little more difficult if I had to have done it myself."

 

Hank seems to realize in that moment he’s still lingering and takes a larger-than-needed step back. In the dim light, he swears the older man is blushing a little as he puts the tweezers back into the box he'd brought in. Connor watches him head to a nearby drawer, rummaging through it. He pulls out a sweatshirt – one probably far too big on him – and tosses it over. Connor easily catches it. It’s a DPD sweatshirt, which, all things considered, is appropriate.

 

“Bring the first aid shit out when you’re done with – whatever the hell you’re doing,” he requests, and then he’s just _gone_ before Connor can say anything else. The entire exchange leaves him confused, but he knows he has more to do now than try to figure it out.

 

But not before pulling on the sweatshirt, which he practically swims in. Pulling up the sleeves, he collects his torn shirt, tie, and the kit and places them all on the chair. Once everything is in an adequate spot, he heads over to sit on the bed, sinking into the mattress. It’s more comfortable than he expects – he thinks this must be the one thing the lieutenant does make an effort to upkeep. Sitting against the backboard, he closes his eyes and his LED quickly starts whirling yellow. A normal run of these particular tests are generally easy. It’s different right now, as he constructs blocks to add an extra layer of protection. Usually his files aren’t accessed remotely by Cyberlife, but if someone has reported him –

 

He just needs time to plan this through.

 

When he finally starts things, he expects to find something, anything. The instability warnings had given him no feedback before, but this was something on a level he’d never experienced before. What ends up being distressing is…there still isn’t anything. After all that, after all he felt, there’s nothing. No sign of corruption. No virus injected into him somehow on contact. It’s just him, with nothing to blame but himself for what had happened during his interaction with the deviant. That it's still happening, that he's still feeling things, just makes it worse - with nothing concrete fix, there's nothing he can do. As he comes out of his self-diagnostics, he recognizes himself feeling something the deviant had in the moments leading up to its death: despair.

 

He spends time afterwards sitting on Hank’s bed, hugging his legs to his chest, his LED spinning red, red, red as he fails again and again to come up with any solution other than the obvious one. It’s irrational, he knows, to be fighting it. A malfunctioning android needs to returned for repair and he's aware he should be fine with just letting that happen. Touching the underside of his jaw, he still feels the pressure of the gun he’d felt against his skin when the deviant killed itself. They won’t deactivate him so violently, at least, it won’t be the same –

 

But won’t it be, just a little?

 

He stays where he is for a little while longer but eventually he stands, pulling the sleeves up again, shutting off the light, and quietly stepping out of the bedroom. Hank is seated in front of the TV, a half-empty beer on the coffee table in front of him. He looks over when Connor steps up beside him.

 

“Took you long enough. I was wondering if I was going to have to sleep on the couch,” he grouses, though Connor can tell he actually isn’t upset. Though he usually would comment back, it doesn't feel appropriate, given what he's about to say. He simply moves to stand in front of him, his expression neutral.

 

“I had to attempt some deeper scans today, given the severity of what occurred,” Connor explains, his voice far too even for what he’s about to suggest. Hank seems to sense something amiss and he shifts so he’s sitting up in his chair, his full attention on him. “And…having completed those self-diagnostic tests, I’ve come to believe that I may have been compromised by the events today. I apologize for the outburst earlier, I won’t let it happen again. My plan now is to send in a detailed report to my superiors of what I found out and return to CyberLife in the morning and let them do what they need to me.”

 

Hank is silent, long enough that Connor looks up. His expression is dark and Connor realizes he must be processing the repercussions of what he’s currently suggesting. When he speaks, his tone is tense. “No. Absolutely not. Are you _shitting_ me right now, Connor? They’ll _kill_ you.”

 

He’s gotten himself together enough by now to not visibly react to the statement, but a sharp spike of fear runs through him at the word _kill_. “…I am too important of a prototype for them to simply destroy me. It's likely that they'll be able to salvage something to place into something else. It’s not a terribly hard process, you’ll likely have the other unit reporting to you as soon as possible.”

 

“I don’t _want_ another unit!”

 

Connor is taken aback by the pointed, forceful statement. He’d been expecting, at best, that Hank would be irritated at still having to deal with one his kind. But no, he’s showing every indication of agitation at the thought of him being _replaced_. Unsure what to say, he takes a stab in the dark at what the issue is.

 

“If you have concerns over this being an issue in the investigation, I can assure you that they’ll make sure the next one will be equipped to hit the ground running,” he offers, and Hank honestly only seems to get angrier at that.

 

“You – no, of course you don’t get it,” he realizes, letting out a frustrated laugh as he stands up. Connor half expects him to grab him, but he instead simply taking the beer bottle and taking a long swig of it until it’s entirely drained of the last of its contents. He slams it back down onto the coffee table, making Sumo startle from his sleep. He looks back at Connor then, and instead of anger, he just looks…tired. Sad. “I want you to try something for me, kid.”

 

His eyebrows furrow a little. “…Of - Of course.”

 

“Put yourself in my position,” he challenges, and he refuses to break his gaze. Forces Connor to look him right in the face. “Would you be okay with a goddamn replication of me?”

 

The answer is utterly simple until Connor gives it the appropriate amount of consideration that it deserves. It also becomes a perfect example of everything currently wrong with him. There’s a logical answer – if he were exactly the same in every aspect, of course he’d be fine with it – and then there’s his true answer.

 

He could never be the same, not really. There's more to Hank than what could just be uploaded into another thing.

 

Fear holds his tongue, though. It’s almost as though speaking his feelings would be the final straw, the thing that finally pushes him over the edge, because following that logic means he feels that way about himself, too. Hank seems to realize an answer isn’t coming and for the first time, Connor sees deep disappointment set in. Somehow, it’s worse than if he’d just punched him in the gut.

 

“I’m going to bed,” he says, turning from him and starting to walk away.

 

Something in him tells him if he let him disappear behind the door, that’d be it. Though one part of him wonders if that’s for the best for everyone involved, the other part wins out. He can’t leave it like this.

 

“Lieutenant – _Hank_ ,” Connor calls out, and it only takes a few smooth strides to catch up to him, grabbing his arm. He fights it initially, not unlike the time he’d fought him bringing him into the bathroom. Connor holds him steady until he finally sags and just shoots him a look.

 

"Let me go."

 

“The answer is no,” he says, his voice low, but firm. “I wouldn’t be okay with it at all.”

 

If this is the last time they really talk – this version of himself and Hank – he wants him to at least know that, flaws and all. It puts him in a dangerous position saying it and he knows it: if there'd been any doubts in Hank's mind, there probably isn't any any longer. Even Connor can't ignore he’s turning down a path that’s potentially dangerous for everyone involved. If his partner decides ultimately this is too much, if he needs to call CyberLife on him, he'll accept it for what it is. He silently releases his arm and waits, feeling exposed in a way he doesn’t like. The lieutenant gives him a slow look over before sighing.

 

“Then I don’t want to hear that shit from you again, do you understand? I haven’t been keeping your feet out of the fire all this time for you to go marching yourself to be disposed, We'll figure this shit out on our own," he promises. Connor had been preparing himself for the worst, and when it didn't come, he feels almost off-kilter as relief hits him. Still, he knows he has an obligation in that moment, because he needs to make sure Hank understands what he's actually suggesting.

 

“This could go badly,” Connor admits, as much as he very much wants to just let this happen. He can do his best to keep himself stable, but it’s a task that could be insurmountable. That there’s a stray thought he doesn’t know that he even _wants_ to try just makes it more concerning.

 

This is likely how it starts, what’s happening now. While the deviants that had infiltrated the station were sophisticated, he’s equally seen ones simply crumbling under the weight of it. He doesn’t want to be the one who hurts someone, who’s found in a dirty, rundown apartment with writing on the wall.  What made each case so different? He almost wishes he could talk to the owner of the android that had been the face of the message he watched, the one that calmly spoke of peace and diplomacy, to see if he did anything differently with the android he had. He had seen in reports he pulled up that Markus may have attacked him, but everything since then, well –

 

The speech had been articulate and well crafted, Connor is willing to give it that.

 

Hank, for his part, is completely unfazed by the warning. He even snorts at the comment. “I mean, I’ve been fucking up for a while now. No sense stopping that now. I told Fowler from the beginning this shit is out of my league, so if this goes sideways, it's on him. But Connor, how do _you_ want all of this to shake out?”

 

Connor knows exactly why he’s asking, but a human actually deferring to him is something he never expected to happen. Hank says it so effortlessly that he doesn’t even think he realizes what he’s doing. Though every part of him feels wrong for it, he pauses to consider the question and give his options proper weight.

 

“This case is still important,” he finally affirms. He doesn’t want anyone else to get hurt, and there’s going to be many hurt if what’s going on escalates. There’s just too little information about the deviants to know how to appropriately proceed with them. So he would find out more, though he’s recognizing he’s very dangerously in a position in the middle of something bigger than him and he’s already feeling the pull.

 

“Alright. I’ll make some calls in the morning. Been thinking of calling in a favor,” Hank replies in a way that indicates he actually would've been fine with whatever he said. Connor must've had a look that maybe he was getting way too deep into his own thoughts for his own good, because suddenly his partner lifts his hand, reaches out, and actually ruffles his hair. “Jesus, stop looking so goddamn gloomy.”

 

It’s such a small motion, but Connor knows it to be an affectionate gesture that no one’s ever done to him before. He doesn’t even bother to fix what he’s mussed, leaving his generally perfectly sculpted hair a bit of a mess. He isn’t sure what’s an appropriate way to respond (to what he just did, to what he's doing in general), so he eventually just ducks his head, feeling the corner of his lip uptick into a smile.

 

“Thank you,” he says, simply, knowing it’s wholly inadequate for the situation but needs to be said regardless. “I’ll let you sleep.”

 

He backs away from where he'd angled his body in an attempt to stop Hank earlier. The older man watches him, and for a second he seems like he's about to say something. Connor waits patiently, but it never comes. Instead, he simply mumbles a goodnight before heading the few more steps to his room. The door shuts soon after, leaving the android feeling like he's missing something. There'd definitely been another one of those temperature spikes right before he seemed to abandon the idea of whatever he'd been about to say, but it made about as much sense as the first time it occured. With nothing else to be done, he simply quietly files it away to think more about later before heading to the couch.

 

It would be more than adequate to suit his needs for the night, though he finds it a bit of a small fit for him as he lays down on it. There are nights he skips going into low power mode all together, but this night, after his system had been so massively overtasked, he decides it would be a necessary and admittedly _welcome_ break from everything. He comes out of his dormant state only once that night, when he feels something heavy drop on top of him. It takes him a moment but he realizes, as he listens to his partner's familiar footsteps retreating from the couch back toward the bedroom, that he'd been covered by a blanket. The gesture isn't lost on him, and despite not actually needing it, he pulls it up closer to his chin.

 

The pleasant jolt he very much is beginning to associate with Hank now doesn't worry him as much this time.


End file.
